Forgotten
by Topgallant
Summary: A series of vignettes on the thoughts, ambitions and feelings of the crew members of the Flying Dutchman. How is it like to serve for dozens of years on a ghost ship? It isn't an easy life...or unlife. **Nominated for Best Character Study -- see profile**
1. Clanker

**Clanker**

I wasn't a religious fanatic 'afore I joined the Dutchman, and I ain't one now, but how can I not believe in the Almighty when I'm on a ship wit' the Devil 'imself? It's me punishment fer being a bad sinner 'afore I even got on this ship. I imagine that by not accepting me fate as a mortal man, I'm forever cursed ter be a monster, as is my due.

After all, even if we have the minimum sentence when we first are enrolled, which is one 'undred years, we'll still 'prolly merge into the ship, like Wyvern. It's what will 'appen to all of us, eventually. Except maybe Cap'n. But he don't live by no rules.

I tell Greenbeard that Wyvern's condition is our impendin', eternal fate. I think that it sounds fairly spiritual, meself, but the rest o' the crew laugh an' call it silly soundin'. They may be right, after all, but I'll jus' continue on saying it despite their opinions.

I dun think Greenbeard really understands me, but he's the only one that listens well, aside from Hadras.

Hadras is from the Guangdong province of China, and English ain't his natural language, but me an' him seem ter understand the other easily enough- not without some difficulty at times, but we dun let that barrier stop us.

On this ship, one is lucky to find friendship, and the bloke'll leap on the opportunity whenever it arises. While we won't support each other if we fall under the officers' ire, in the down time, it helps to have someone just to beat the misery away, an' fill it with something else, something almost joyful.

Either that, or you'd be down in your cups, wit' trouble breathing down your back. We all of us know the things that can happen if you let yerself sink too much into misery an' despair, an' it ain't just becomin' like Wyvern. No, something else entirely.

You draw attention to yerself, an' that's something that you _never _want. It's different when you get into a fight with Jimmylegs- it's his temper that usually drags you into that mess. That doesn't mean Cap'n will act any little bit more forgiving, though; that's one aspect that's constant about him. He'll never act that way.

But if ye bring yourself into the light, as it were, an' ye dun have a clear head to steady yerself, you'll soon be nursing more wounds than ye'd care to describe.

So, to keep our minds off absinthe or other things that will make us act out, we'll do whatever we can. Though of course, special occasions always call for a good bottle or two. But for most days, Hadras an' I often play Liar's Dice, an' he's rather talented at it. I haven't developed a strategy like he has, but I still get along well enough. But that ain't the only thing we do together.

Hadras has taught me a Chinese game as well, called Mahjongg. We found it below the waterline, hidden behind drenched, ruined silk cushions in the wreck of a partially submerged junk we came across in the Yellow Sea. Many of the tiles were missing, and many more now have been lost since the board came into our possession.

Still, we do what we can wit' what we 'ave.

Mahjongg is really only used by Hadras and meself. We keep to ourselves, huddled in a corner and peering closely at the pieces in the semi-darkness, pointing out possible moves that the other may not have seen.

Even when the others spot us playing it when off-duty, they keep their distance, finding no reason to get involved. On the Dutchman, too much curiosity is soon crushed and suppressed, hidden away in the dank depths of yer soul, buried right beside your humanity an' compassion.

There are forbidden subjects onboard- one of the foremost bein' love.

If he hears ye, Cap'n'll flog the bugger who mentions the word 'imself, and if you're watchin' the event, you can even see a glimpse of the pain in Cap'n's very own eyes. With every snap of the cat, with every cry from the victim, every grunt from the Cap'n, every creak of the ship, it forms a sickening beat, the rhythm of the Flying Dutchman.

_Snap_. _Moan_. _Grunt_. _Creak_. _Snap_. _Moan_. _Grunt_. _Creak_.

Normally we all gather 'round an' leer at the man on the wrong side of the whip, unless we feel Cap'n's acting cruel that day. But when he 'imself does it, even Jimmylegs will flinch on occasion. The mates are obligated ter stand on attention, but as for the rest of us, we'll scatter and flee to the darkest niches of the ship, even though the dreadful sound'll follow us anywhere we go.

There was one particularly awful occasion where that happened, an' it was long before me an' Hadras joined.

Only the oldest remember that. Greenbeard does.

There was a poor blighter who was relatively new on the ship, freshly scooped up from the briny deep, still full of hope an'…love. He had, unwittingly strayed onto the subject of his life as a mortal man, and began to talk 'bout his wife and four children that he left behind. It was -using me own expression- his impending, eternal fate that Cap'n's ears had overheard this conversation, and he was brought into an unequaled rage. He furiously tore the whip out of the grasp of the previous bo'sun and set himself upon the unsuspecting sailor.

The man was driven mad by the pain, and when he had enough strength to stand again, the first place he went to was the brig, according to Greenbeard, who's senile in his own right. It's hard to say if his words have any sense in them anymore, but I dun have any reason not to believe him.

After all, if you really want to prove his tale true, all ye'll need to do is go down below and see Ol' Wyvern for yourself.

And so here I am in me hammock, unable to read, but clutching the Holy Book to me chest all the same. Good moments or bad, there's only one thing ye can do on the Flying Dutchman.

Get on yer marrowbones an' pray.


	2. Palifico

**Palifico **

I know how I died.

I was a low-ranked sailor manning a trading vessel whose hull was eaten by toredo worms. We had no idea those little blighters were even there! Just three weeks ago, we'd careened our ship to make repairs, but they must've found us afterwards. Whatever the case, night came upon us fairly quickly that day, and, dark as it was, our vision wasn't all that good.

We ran afoul of a reef just below the waterline. That, along with the damage already inflicted by the worms, was the factor that caused our ship to sink.

We tried pumping, bailing, but nothing could fix the damage; there was a bloody hole in the bow! For hours we labored to keep the Foxhound afloat, with each attempt growing more demoralized and weakened. To add to our spirits, the Almighty thought it'd be mighty good to 'refresh' us with a nice drizzle.

A drizzle that soaked our clothes, and pooled all around the ship, spraying us with splashes of water every time we ran back and forth across the deck. Our desperation escalated, as did our tempers.

Eventually, cracking under all the pressure we had to bear, the crew split into two groups; one half of us intent on saving the Foxhound, the other believin' her dead and lost beyond repair.

It doesn't matter which faction I joined; for soon the Captain stopped any arguments from arising into a full-blown fistfight.

Our furies had risen to that point, amazingly.

The Captain had to shout to keep order, for our tension and tolerance were both worn thin.

We were ready to snap like yards of overly-taut rope.

He explained that it wasn't worth our lives to keep bickering pointlessly; the only thing we were doing was just ultimately causing ourselves more grief when we should be preparing our escape.

It was a unanimous agreement that he was right.

So we abandoned ship.

It was riding low in the water by that time, and the waves were very close to washing over the bowsprit.

We arduously lowered our first longboat very slowly so as not to scrape the bottom on the reef, which was jutting out considerably. We were getting anxious.

I was among the first to go down; a small group of men, cramped, wet and shivering, the first to flee from certain death, and possibly face a new one.

I imagine one of the fellows crankin' us down got startled by something and we free fell for a split second. Even though the sea wasn't all that far below us, it was enough.

I tumbled out of the boat, and bashed my head on the coral.

Next thing I know, Captain Jones was staring me dead in the eyes. His face was terrifyingly close, and I could see nothin' past him. My eyes swam, and my mind felt murky. I 'spose I looked something terrible.

It was a wonder I survived. But then, after some consideration…maybe I didn't.

"Greetings, boy-uh. The Flying Dutchman welcomes you-uh."

"Y-you're Davy Jones! You're that, that…" I gurgled, eyes wide with fear and ice cold recognition.

"That what?" his lips twitched and made an innocent popping sound. "Devil?"

I heard laughter echo from behind him.

"You've died, boy-uh. You've died and have only two options to choose from: You can join me, the _Devil_," he said this mockingly, and again that horrible, jeering laughter from behind, "and serve for one hundred years, living our the rest of your days once your term is over…or, you can sink to the abyss!"

I was pleased with neither options, but I felt I had no choice.

"I-I'll join!" I gasped.

Addled as I was, I didn't stop to consider that I was damning my soul. The horrible crew cackled and cheered, calling me names and talkin' 'bout things I didn't understand.

It was only when the Captain smiled in that ghastly way of his…and _welcomed_ me into the crew that I really died.


	3. Quittance

**Quittance**

Having a moray eel squirming in one's chest is a very aberrant thing, to put it mildly. I've gotten used to it by now, but when the incident first occurred…all I know was I kept flailing around, lashing out with my hands, trying to swat it away like a madman.

It didn't work.

The Flying Dutchman was submerged, and we were allowed to wander around as we pleased. The shadows of the men swimming above me was becoming a usual sight. I'd look down at the deck, and see the dark shapes cast on the wood that were distorted and grotesque. I'd shuddered then. I knew I was becoming one of those vicious monsters.

Already barnacles, muscles, starfish and the aquatic variety of ferns began clinging to my skin after the months following my admittance into the crew. It was unsettling enough to hover inches above the deck, cold ocean all around me, not needing to surface for air even once, then needing to adjust to this…perversion of life, this mutation of my body as well.

I'm not an easily agitated man- but this disturbing anomaly of nature, this fact that I still _lived_, when really my bones should be littering the sea floor…was just repulsive.

I had kicked myself towards the bottom of the ocean, which stretched out vast and endless beneath us. It was not too far down, and I suppose I imagined I'd feel more comfortable, knowing at least nothing dangerous lay lurking below the ship. It was useless, in reality, but I still had the unconditional fear that a savage shark would find me good bait.

I laugh now, a rattling, rasping sound. Maccus, the Captain's First Mate, is the worst shark I ever need to fear.

But, as I look at the dying sun, casting a final, orange glow on the shimmering sea…as I look beyond it, really, into the past, the vile memory still floods my mind.

A rocky shelf jutted up before me as I swam parallel to the sea floor, and it was covered with long stalks of kelp and netted with seaweed. They looked like trees on a barren outcrop, swaying in high wind. I propelled myself closer, interested. The Dutchman's shadow was still above me, moving slowly, almost languidly through the water.

I needn't worry about falling behind.

I ascended at my leisure, taking time to inspect the more pronounced nicks and harmless creatures that lurked in crevices of the rock. I then espied a particularly deep niche, and, for some reason - I do not know even now what force drove me to this action - I thrust my hand inside it.

That was, of course, my greatest error.

The eel that lay within, both displeased and started by my intrusion, clamped its jaw firmly around my wrist, razor sharp teeth digging into my still human flesh. I screamed, bubbles erupting from my mouth. This only provoked the animal further. Releasing its hold on my hand, it darted forward, directly towards my chest.

I will not elaborate further, save to say this; a nest of corral had formed on my torso, and the eel surely thought this shelter, and drove straight into it.

Shelter it became.

The ocean had taken its toll on my body, transfiguring me into a horrid assembly of organisms and a myriad of other oceanic substances. The corral on my chest only expanded, until it merged with my body even more, leaving the eel with a secure home…one that happened to be me.

The sun finally slips below the horizon, and I watch it with a sinking heart. I've long ago become indifferent about my fate. The eel had a chance of freedom, before it too fused into me, this poor creature, just as ugly and hopeless as I.


	4. Old Haddy

**Old Haddy**

I canna' remember when first I got on the Dutchman. Long time ago, I 'spose. Dun remember how it happened exactly, either. I do know that I never much liked the ocean.

Scared me to hell, really. Sent me to hell.

Tha's where I am, righ' now.

Ev'ry wakin' moment is like walking through fire an' brimstone, each step heavy an' weighed down wit' grief.

For those of us who can remember our pasts, we're forever haunted by the ghosts of those we left behind. We can't ne'er go back, and those from our history can ne'er come forward an' join us.

It just dun _work_ that way.

I was meant to be a groom for some high up, well to-do bigwig colonist in Charlestown, on the island of Nevis. Groom- that's a fellow who takes care of horses. I liked horses. I liked a lot of things, then.

Don't really matter nothing now, 'course. I'm just some deckhand on the Dutchman. S'likely I won't progress none, as I still ain't cut out for a sailor's life, even on this ship.

Tha's why Maccus and Jimmylegs and all them other mates got better positions; they were men of the sea, I reckon. Even if they weren't…they sure are now. I try to stay out of their way; I'm a quiet type of man, and I don't like gettin' myself involved in other people's affairs.

Finnegan's a lot like me, the good lad. He canna' tolerate aggression or trickery to better yerself in the eyes of others. He also dun like to talk much. Him an' Ratlin an' I are all quiet an' by our lonesome most ev'ry day.

We aren't the ones to go to for help.

We'd like to be there, we _want_ to help, but we can't. Not anymore than we go back to bein' human.

I was old enough in age when I stepped foot on that blasted, doomed ship. The thing always rocked an' tilted. Made me sick to my stomach, really. I didna' want to go on, but the lady of the household, a widow, poor woman, was engaged to that man. She was my employer, too, but I cared nothin' 'bout her money.

I wouldna' desert her, so I stayed.

I don't know exactly how we died, but it must've been somethin' terrible.

Bless my soul, the lovely widow didna' deserve to die. She must've.

I canna' recall anyone else, but they were just as unfortunate as that sweet woman.

...But no. Now that I think of it, sitting on the Flyin' Dutchman, the Grim Reaper of those lost at sea…picking _barnacles_ off myself…I know they weren't the unfortunate lot.

They was the lucky ones.


	5. Manray

**Manray**

I never cared 'bout no one else.

People thought me strange, misanthropic and cold, even prone to rash actions on a whim. But I don't give none to what they think.

Still don't care.

I like when people shrink 'way from me in fear, my ghastly, warped figure towerin' over those wretched, sobbing souls. My new, ever-changin' body is an asset more than a curse. I'm stronger than I ever was before, an' now there ain't _no_ way anyone will find me less than downright intimidatin'.

It gives me a certain edge, both when in battle, Harvestin' or simply on the Flying Dutchman itself.

When I see pure, unparalleled terror blazing like a fire in the murky, unfocused eyes of cowards, I get nostalgic memories surfacin'.

Good times from me past.

Reminds me o' when all the bleedin'-hearts o' New Providence took pains to avoid me on the streets of town, what with my reputation o' being fierce an' rotten to the core. Those blokes were supposed to be lethal villains, ferocious warriors and dastardly pirates. They were all jus' petty criminals.

Not like _me_. No, _I_ was different, above such common pursuits like thievin' or smugglin'.

_I _had quite a career even 'afore I took to the seas.

I was a brutal mercenary; vicious, violent an' cunning. I may not seem much like the type _now_…but I was an awe-striking sight, like a dark conqueror.

A warlord, you might even say.

A collector o' souls.

Hm, now I really am one. _Now_ I'm something to be feared.

The hunt was exhilarating; chasing my stumbling quarry down grimy, scum-filled streets of corrupt towns. It was so lawless, but it all had _order_ to it.

Order _I _brought.

Inflictin' pain on others makes me feel powerful; like I'm a god. I smile when those weaklings cringe in fear an' shrink away.

I like it a lot.

I know many of the crew don't share my sentiments 'bout how we treat the souls we collect, but they're just too frightened, probably rememberin' when they too just flopped about on the deck like some sort o' pathetic fish. It's disgustin'. I can't stand 'em.

Me an' Jimmylegs, we get along quite well. I don't call him 'friend'- I don't need none. But we both like the way a weapon fits to the shape o' our hands, an' we share a lot o' the same ideals.

…If that's what you choose to call 'em.

I like watchin' when the boatswain whips some misbehavin' crewman into shape with the cat. It's interestin' to see which ones cry out, which ones hold it in, grittin' their teeth…I make mental notes on all 'o them, keeping tabs, and the like.

It may seem unnecessary. Obsessive, even.

But it ain't like that. I'm learning about the crew. Being relatively new, compared to some others, I need to establish the ranks here. I need to figure out who's the master of whom. It'll be important if I'm to be gaining status meself some day.

Jones is the kind of man to see beauty and poetry in cruelty, though he ain't one for excessive or superfluous actions. I'll have to watch meself, making sure I don't overstep no bounds, though at the same time, gain the Cap'n's respect.

Eventually, perhaps, his admiration.

Sometimes I'll jus' observe the lot o' the crew quietly, getting involved in their meaningless conversations only when I need to, deliberately making decisive and clever comments to pry into their minds, figurin' out the way they think.

Devious o' me, I know. I like that part o' me, too.

It's imperative that I make the certain connections now that I'll need later on. This ship is an intricately laced web of hierarchy and station.

If I don't got rank, I don't got nothing.

Maybe, with this knowledge of the crew that I've gleaned, I can plan the right movements and actions to make it up to the position of first mate, some day. Cap'n Jones doesn't realize what an ambitious man he's got here.

But soon- soon he'd better.


	6. Jelly

**Jelly **

It itches something terrible 'aving a blasted jellyfish on me 'ead. I've long since adjusted to its stingers, but that doesn't lessen the discomfort one blazin' bit.

It pulses sometimes, like somethin' alive- not that it wouldn't be, actually. I suppose its part o' me now. I can't even remember 'ow the li'l bugger first latched on to me 'ead. It started small, at first. Just a tiny louse, it was.

Now look at me! It's coverin' 'alf of me 'ead, by thunder.

I don't get teased about it on the Dutchman; there are, after all, plenty other tars 'ere that look worse than meself. I've just learned to ignore the bloomin' pain, and after a while the itching goes away, thank Neptune. 

I've taught meself to simply jus' stop scratching me sores…or whatever them boils on me skin are. If I break the surface, all this stingin' puss will ooze out, and it burns 'otter than 'ell. _Then_ I'll be laughed at, and it ain't a pleasant thing.

The jeering of me shipmates is jus' as unbearable as the jellyfish perched on me 'ead. My cheeks would turn beet red- when I still looked 'uman, that is. When you're new on this ship, it's like you're fresh meat tossed to the bleedin' dogs.

If I wasn't shakin' with fright like a pup with me tail between me legs, I'd call those blokes poxy curs, or something insultin' like that. I think they would 'ave laughed at me more, though. I bet they've been called names far worse than that…or they jus' probably don't care no more.

That seems most likely.

The funny thing is, after serving on the Dutchman for all these years, when people get a glance at me face and turn their countenance away in shock, I get sad inside, ashamed, if ye will. I was always touchy about me appearance- I liked to look decent like, for me lady friend.

I suppose it don't matter anymore.

It's a silly thing to be obsessed with me appearance…especially now that there ain't no turning back. I'll look like a bleedin' bag of pus the rest o' me life, so it's best I just turn away and toughen up.

I may sound fierce. 'Ell, I may _look_ it!

…But I've always been nothing more than a shaking, smelly cur with me tail between me legs. I've got me a sword now, but I ain't good at usin' it. I'll get knocked down 'alf the time 'cause I'm too much o' a coward to put it to any good use.

I ain't as bad a failure as that poor 'ol bugger, Crash. The boatswain's usually too preoccupied with lashin' 'im to take the time to 'urt me.

I don't envy the lad, and I'm sure as 'ell 'appy that it ain't me in 'is boots. I'd talk to 'im more often than I do if I wasn't afraid o' angerin' the boatswain or Manray. That leaves Crash mostly by 'is lonesome.

I understand 'is plight well enough. Jus' like 'im, I ain't one of the more respected men on the Dutchman, an' I pity 'im like few others o' us can. Even Penrod ain't kicked 'round as much as he is.

No matter who'll be chum for the sharks, I'm bloomin' happy that I usually get by well enough on me own. Those boys 'ave 'ad to deal with inferiority all their lives; they're bleedin' used to it by now! I've 'ad no such luck.

Whenever someone fancies it'll be mighty good fun to jeer at me, I'll melt into an oozing pile o' sludge, trying to slip into the cracks o' the deck an' disappear. I can't stand the barest mean-spirited poke.

Not even a little one.

Call me sensitive, then. I am. I'm made of jelly, after all.


	7. Jimmylegs

**Jimmylegs**

People think I enjoy causing pain. Manray does, an' he respects me fer it. He don't understand I _pride_ meself on it, finding joy in me art. I can appreciate me own craftsmanship, can't I? That doesn't mean that I feel remorseful about doing it, though.

Because I don't.

That's one thing ye'd need ter understand. I don't feel nothing when I whip the men the Cap'n orders me ter. Nothing maybe but the warm feelin' of a task well accomplished, or maybe strong hate of the unlucky fellow who feels the sting of me cat.

The bloke usually deserves their punishment.

So- I'm the one meant to deliver it ter them all, an' I do a fine job of it. It grants me a position of authority on the ship, and they've all learned not to get in me way. I have a nasty temper.

But…there are those I get along with. Manray included. Mostly it's him, the mates, Ogilvey the main gunner an' Koleniko, the coxswain. As fer the rest of this sorry lot, I need only shoot 'em a heated glare and that will send them clawing their way up the mast, it will!

Heh, the new ones get on me bad side almost immediately, and shiver as I pass 'em by. I don't take pleasure in their fear, but I use it to me advantage nonetheless. I'm a cruel manner of man, but I don't love ter kill.

I do what I'm told, an' sometimes I'm told ter kill, or ter whip.

Save the mates, they _all_ fear me bite when we play Liar's Dice. None's the happy one when I lose. Of course I can't use the cat on them without the Cap'n's orders, but he'll turn a blind eye to an occasionally scuffle…or brawl.

Still, I'm supposed ter keep order on this ship, so I can't let everyone run amuck like a bunch of barnyard hens fleeing the shadow of a hawk.

I'm the hawk, half the time. Maccus is the other half.

Few dare defy me, or look me in the eye. Some of 'em are weak like that. It be a rare occasion fer those ones ter be sentenced to the cat o'nine tails.

Bootstrap, the new man on board is the quiet type, like Old Haddy. He stays clear out of me way and does as he's meant to. He hardly needs to be flogged, and when the time arrives, as it inevitably does, I'm told the punishment should be light- he prolly' just was working too slow fer the Cap'n's fancy.

_Everyone_ prolly' works too slow fer the Cap'n's fancy.

Then there's one man who receives his dues nigh ev'ry other day. Crash.

Crash is an idiot. A bumblin' idiot. The fool can't handle a blunderbuss without fumbling with it and letting it drop to the deck, firing into his own foot. It can't hurt him much, but he makes the Cap'n furiously angry. Even I shudder under his wrath. It's a thing ter be feared.

It's a surprise the Cap'n hasn't sent him yet down ter the brig, letting him just rot, or assimilate into the hull, like ol' Wyvern.

I hate Crash. Crash hates me.

Most of the crew hates me. Ah, but I get ter whip 'em all.


	8. Greenbeard

**Greenbeard**

I'm one of the oldest.

I was here 'fore any o' dem- 'fore Ratlin, 'fore Wheelback, 'fore Jimmylegs. Wyvern was a shipmate o' mine, even before 'da Dutchman. He dun 'member me no more, 'cause he's senile, rotting down below decks. I too'll probably go jus' like 'im soon.

But for now, Cap'tin has a use for me. I dun need to sleep or eat, finding me energy from 'de sun. That's what Quittance says, and he's a smart one. A wealthy nobleman, he says he was. He explained the process of how I gather nutrients from 'de sun, trans…something it into energy for meself.

Oh. Transforming. Or converting. One of 'dem words. I dun understand what he meant by that, but I didna' want to seem like a simpleton compared to 'im. So I jus' pretended to understand, nodding my head knowledgeable-like.

But I'm thankful I dun need to take care o' meself like 'de normal sailor ought to. That's why Cap'tin needs me, to navigate when 'de remainder o' 'de crew rest. It's a job I like; jus' me, alone at night, 'de stars winking 'bove me, 'de night air cool an' fresh on me face. Sometimes we go under 'de water, but even then everything is slow an' tranquil.

Tranquil is another word Quittance taught me. He's a patient fellow, not at all like Broondjongen. _That_ man doesn't have no 'spect for the aging members o' 'de crew, like me an' Wyvern.

He stomps 'round 'de deck, always in a foul mood. Jimmylegs pays me no attention, nor does Manray, but Broondjongen goes out o' his way to pester me, statin' in an overloud, boomin' voice how I'll start becomin' part o' 'de ship any day now. He's right though.

Each day, me memory slips away a li'l bit more, and sometimes I struggle to 'member 'de names of some o' 'de newer shipmates. It gets harder an' harder to move, and 'de urge to disappear below decks sometimes jus' takes strong hold o' me.

I dun like goin' down there at all any more. Soon, I'll get 'de courage to ask 'de Cap'tin if I can stay 'bove decks all 'de time, as to forestall me impending, eternal fate. Dat's wha' Clanker calls it. Impending, eternal fate.

Clanker often advises the poor souls we catch to "Get down on yer marrowbones 'an pray"…though I dun know what he means by marrowbones. I'm losing me dignity as it is, let alone if I ask 'im or Quittance 'bout something dat I feel should be obvious.

So I just dun say much. I wasn't ever too much o' a quiet person, but now I hardly utter a word. In fact, I'm beginning to lose me vocabulary, as Quittance says.

It all leads back to 'de same thing. I'm going to fade soon, an' it's more frightening 'den death. Still, I dun ever think about what would've happened if I had said I didna' fear death, like some o' 'de others. Part of that reason is because it was too far in 'de past to recall, and also 'cause there ain't nothing that can change what happened.

There isn't any point in mopin' 'bout it.

But one of these days, I'll soon have to face me impending, eternal fate, and I dun look forward to it one bit.


	9. Crash

**Crash**

I d-don't understand why the b-bos'un d-doesn't like m-me. It's h-hard to b-believe that he decided to single out one p-person to maltreat and abuse, of all the choices that he has on the Flying D-dutchman.

B-but no. It's me he chose. M-me, the one who could never do right by his p-pa, the one who shamed his ma and older brother. The simple one. That might b-be the reason the b-bos'un hates m-me. He knows I'm just a f-f-failure. I was in life, and I am in d-death. All the m-more reason to discriminate against m-me, knowing that n-n-no one will f-feel any little b-bit of sympathy for a s-stupid, s-t-tammering disappointment.

M-my parents made a blunder when they c-conceived me. Wanted another healthy little s-son, they claimed. They n-never expected a f-frail little ball of flesh that c-couldn't even cry out be-c-cause of its pain.

And yet, they still p-pleaded for the doctor to s-save the pitiful little w-wretch, when they knew they should have j-just drowned the thing. But n-no. They didn't drown m-me. At m-my mother's breast I was suckled, nursed to the health that I should have b-been born with.

They thought I was only a sick child, something that c-could be easily cured. B-but they got worried when I first started to sp-peak. Of c-c-course they couldn't t-tell when I was a child, but as I got older, m-my speech impediment worsened, n-not improved. Along with that, I n-n-never was a smart little one- not like my br-brother.

Mickey was an intelligent b-boy all through the t-t-time we were lads. M-mickey, a few years older than I, was healthy and athletic, unlike m-me, who always st-stumbled and fell.

I was a lanky, p-p-pale youth, and could c-contract an illness with more ease than a general c-command an army. Mickey was in sharp contrast to m-me, a well-built, golden-haired angel who d-did no wrong.

I wasn't b-bad, but I was more cumbersome t-to my family than useful. It's b-been too long aboard this ship to remember what ma and pa looked like, b-but Mickey…I know I'll c-carry his image with me f-f-for a long t-time.

I d-don't know what happened to him while we were crossing to Germany, there t-to introduce m-me to his lovely fiancée that he met on one of his t-trading voyages. I only hope they b-b-both got married and lived out a l-long life t-t-together.

I c-can't even remember how long ago that was. The entire trip was hazy f-for me. I had contracted sc-scarlet fever, and spent weeks abed, too ill to even stand or walk about. No g-glorious b-battle, n-no v-violent squall k-killed m-me, but a d-disease.

It probably didn't come as much of a surprise t-to my family, who had long expected m-my life to be cut short. My body probably was tossed overboard during the worst of the fever, for no one on the t-t-tight little ship wanted to be in contact with the disease, and they knew it was t-too late for m-me anyway.

Q-quittance, whose brother was a d-doctor, said that I have a weak 'immune system', and he then proceeded to l-lecture me about how the idea was first explored in ancient Greece.

Q-quittance c-can carry on sometimes, and there are few of us on the Dutchman who are well-learned enough to understand him, b-but he's well-liked by most all the crew, and when I'm with him, the b-bos'un leaves me alone.

Urchin came up to m-me one t-time after I had gotten flogged, and s-s-said apologetically, "Circle of life, chum. Weakest links always get hurt most."

He's right. On this ship, I have no d-doubt I'm the weakest link.


	10. Bootstrap Bill Turner

**Bootstrap Bill Turner**

There's a certain peace with the sea. Anyone, _anyone_ who has been drawn to it since the time they were lads always had that surge of knowledge when standing on the long stretch of sand, knowing then and there where they wanted to be for the rest of their life.

Those who were children of privilege entered lawful professions, traders, merchants, sailors. _Honest_ sailors who returned to their families, and lived a life of love and warmth, if not prosperity.

Of course, there always were those whose work was of a different…_persuasion_.

They are horrid people, awful men who do nothing but pillage, burn and slaughter, stealing other's livelihoods and shattering lives. I despise those men.

I hate them because of what they made me. One _of_ them.

I left my darling son and my beautiful wife, the boy younger than my age when my own father died. For that I will _never_ forgive myself.

My wife and I struggled for years to conceive a child, foiled each time by a wicked twist of fate.

Fate, it seems, never liked me.

We both grew older, and the prospect dwindled away into nothingness. With the final, dying hope that one day we might have children running amuck 'round our feet, our love grew cold. Meaningless. Lifeless.

Our attempts grew spaced apart, each time more desperate and less intimate than the last. She would turn her countenance away from me as we went through the actions; chilled, wet, salty teardrops sailed down her cheeks like rivulets of gentle sea-rain.

Finally we stopped entirely, going through our daily routine without a word to one another. I would spend my nights out in taverns or with my mates, unwilling to retreat back to the place I once felt happy to call my home.

My friends all joked and spoke scornfully of my marriage, claiming that it was my first mistake, just like theirs. But they were wrong.

So wrong.

I _did_ love her. Once I did; very much so. It was only when we both discovered she was utterly barren, fruitless, did our relationship begin to disintegrate.

We both blamed the other, as we should not have, and so we both fell to ruin.

There was one misty night that I staggered home, drunk, and flung open the door. My wife rose to her feet, chocolate brown locks -now entwined with a few strands of silver- cascading limply over her shoulders, moisture in her eyes.

I paid no attention to her, thinking her a silly woman crying over the smallest trifle.

But she was beautiful, ah, so beautiful, and with an unearthly grace she floated to me, gently caressing my cheek and whispering, "I've missed my monthly course."

I turned to her fully and spat, "You are imagining it again, woman! It was what you said last time."

How dare she act so falsely? There was no hope for us; I was clearly impotent, she was barren, a cursed relationship from the start. What we shared in the beginning was nothing more than youthful passion, casual lust personified, I imagined.

She smiled wistfully and shook her head, looking down and enfolding my hands in hers.

"No! No. This time it is true; I know it. I know it truly." Something about the way she said those ordinary words sobered me up, rekindled a spark of the fire that we both had lost long ago.

The damage that was done was done, never like before were we, never fully repaired. Something died between us, but there was affection nonetheless as we looked upon one another nine months later, holding our son, William, in our arms.

Despite this impossible new life, this heavenly child, my old drinking habits refused to be quelled.

Twelve years later, every night, as before, I would leave our home, heading steadily down the track to the harbor, city lights twinkling in the evening gloom.

It was there that I ran into my old friend, Captain Jack Sparrow.

He was assembling a crew, planning to head to the Caribbean, seeking fortune and a lifetime's supply of riches. Apparently, after the sinking of his beloved ship, the Wicked Wench, a new and very similar vessel came into his command mysteriously, though he spoke not of the reasons how.

This new ship…was the Black Pearl.

It was aptly named, for when he guided me to its berth, the Pearl's beautiful black sails took my breath away.

"Bill," he whispered in my ear, "For old time's sake?"

Jack, still a man in his youth, was not old as I. I, who still so recently it seemed, gained that one final addition to my family that I have worked for, for so long.

But the promise of fortune was alluring, and I became distracted, and not even William was able to shake me from my evil thoughts of adventure and fortune.

I'd pirated before with Jack, but gave that life up when I first met the woman I would soon make my wife. My life on land -no matter how close to the sea- was stifling. I thought that I didn't want a family anymore. William was growing up into a fine young man, and would be well off on his own, soon out of the house and into an apprenticeship, with good luck.

_I_ was getting older, my bones stiffening more and more.

I thought that it was time to go.

I was an idiot.

During supper one night, I interrupted the silence of the meal, remarking casually, "I met an old friend today."

My wife's gaze remained fixated on her food and said, "Aye, what of it?"

William glanced up and observed me with his mother's eyes, saying nothing. I found his steady stare unnerving. Clearing my throat, I continued.

"And he told me of life in the Caribbean."

William said nothing still.

"Apparently, this year, merchant sailors have made a fortune on their trades."

The clinking of cutlery on shoddy bowls of stew was the answer that greeted me. My wife looked up now, wary and alert, sipping her soup cautiously, eyes locked on mine.

I avoided her stern gaze.

"My job at the shop brings in barely enough funds to support us. I supposed that I'd sign up for a short term, and I'd-"

"You'd leave your wife and babe!" My wife was screaming suddenly, bowl and cutlery clattering noisily to the floor. She stood up abruptly, eyes wild. "Don't you dare leave us now, William Turner! Not after we tried so hard!" Water was streaming down her cheeks, dribbling down her chin.

I was shouting too, wanting the woman to just be _quiet_, for once. In my rage, I didn't notice young William disappear quietly out the door, heading for the cove down by the sea where he always went when he needed to be alone.

I stormed out of the house in a rage, tearing down the steep path on the cliffside as fast as I could, my wife shrieking hysterically at the threshold of our cottage, helpless to do anything else.

I never looked back.

Hours later, when things had quieted, and the sky lightened to the pale blue of near dawn, I crept back to the house, past my slumbering wife, and into the next room, kissing my boy, my sweet William one last, final goodbye.

I left with Jack Sparrow that morning.

Now, I'll never see my son again, not unless he dies at sea. But I pray every single day that it won't be his destiny. I pray that my son will live long and in comfort, finding a bride who he'll love…and who will love him back until the day that he dies.

It wasn't fair of me to leave a boy on the cusp of manhood, tossing him away so quickly like an old toy. I spent all that time striving to help make life spring out from between my wife's loins, but it seems like I thought it no more important than my own, wasted life. I treated him that way.

I'm a failed pirate, a failed husband, and it pains me most of all my mistakes in life…a failed father.

Perhaps I was never _meant_ to be a father. Perhaps I cheated fate, and so this service aboard the Dutchman in my righteous punishment for hurting my son so.

If that is the truth, then this will be the only decision I will never regret.


	11. Two Head

**Two Head**

Always, throughout our lives, we longed for independence of each other, to be known as two separate entities, to be addressed one after the other, not as "Bartholomew and Frederic."

Always, _always_ Bartholomew _and_ Frederic, never bothering to differentiate us, never bothering to ask us about our own successes and failures, always treating us as one whole. We may be twins, but we still are human.

_Were_.

It's...different, now. Two Head. The Twins. That's what we're called on this overgrown piece of floating kindling.

At least, when we were alive, we still had our names.

Even though people might have slurred them together, mixed up our identities and treated us as the same, we still had our _names_!

…Names that mean less to us each day. Names…that we aren't sure were really ours anymore. Still, the words Bartholomew and Frederic Kenworthy give us an illusion of calm, if only for a brief time. It may not be much, those words, and they may be losing their value, but we at least associate them with ourselves, with who we used to be.

Names are important on this ship, be they real or just monikers. Names here can mean the difference between Captain and deckhand. Names…titles…they're more vital than people realize.

If you had everything that was associated with you stripped away, what would be left? Just a husk, a shell. A nameless creature that was a bane to the world. A blight that needed to be eliminated for the sake of everyone else.

Everyone _important_.

The power of recognition is far more significant and valued than anyone takes it for; after all, who doesn't like to be praised, to be acknowledged and respected? For someone who never experienced anonymity to such a degree as us, it may not seem like much.

But they have no idea.

If, for even a fraction of a second, they understood what it felt like to be invisible, incorporeal...or at least mistaken or treated as another…perhaps they could commiserate, perhaps they'd be more sympathetic.

But who's _they_, anyway?

We're just labeling everyone we can, desperately and pitifully attempting to lessen the sting of obscurity.

It sounds like it could be so easy, so simple to just merge into the shadows, to escape, nameless and without burden. Perhaps…well, perhaps it is easy, for others. But not us.

That's not what we ever wanted. We had dreams and ambitions, distinct to both of us, but now that hope has faded until we can't even remember what we once so desired.

But we can't complain. No more than the rest of us. We've all lost something precious to us, whether it be dreams, people…or our own lives. We've all lost our identities, too.

Each and every one of us.

Still, what will our useless drivel accomplish, aside from making us slack off our duties? It's pointless, just depressing us more.

We shouldn't care about 'identities' or 'independence' anymore. It doesn't concern us now. The only thing that should matter to us is working on that sailcloth we're supposed to be stitching.

But still, it makes us think.

If you don't have your identity anymore, than what would you _really_ be?

Probably something like us.


	12. Hadras

**Hadras**

One would think that it easy to chop off fellow's head like you see farmers do with chickens. But it not easy.

First, you hear horrible squelching sound, but you keep swinging blade, ignoring nasty sliding sensation you get when cutting through neck. It no a pretty act, but sometimes fellow must do it.

Although, if person distracted…sometimes they don't slice all away. That leaves victim wounded, gasping and spluttering on deck. People think him dead.

But he no always dead.

My vision was blurry, and I kept choking up blood, drained of life. I hear pounding sound of battle around me, and dull thuds keep echoing on all sides; I think men were falling dead onto floor. I was tangled in mass of unused rope, and my heartbeat was loud in my ears.

My neck was very much hurting, and the _lan dzai _who wounded me was still probably dancing around ship, waving stupid flashy sword and grinning like evil mad man. I could not see anything, and could only listen to screams and smell putrid death around me.

Death not nice scent, and it made me gasp worse. Gunpowder and smoke filled my lungs, making it harder to breathe than before.

I was fast fading; I think I was dying. Sounds of battle died down after long time of clanging and shouting, although everything was still just a numb throb in my head. For a time, all I heard was my own strangled gargling, but a firm _clunk clunk_ soon got louder and louder.

At first, I not know what it was, but I blink and then see face in front of mine. My eyes not so bad anymore, and my breathing better, so I could focus more on thing before me.

It horribly ugly face, and looked like _ou lun dun jhew hai_; bad words I will not speak in English.

I did no understand much of what he was saying, so I kept mumbling, "I don't want to die." in Cantonese. It was only thing _to _do.

The creature-thing looked like demon, and I thought it came to feast on souls of dead shipmates. I imagined I was close enough to death for it to eat me, and I was alert enough to be much scared.

Creature-thing smirked, and suddenly my body hurt less. It walked away, and I stumble to my feet, much confused about what happened. Before, I was in too much pain to move, but now, pain disappeared.

I was no happy, though, because I was not on familiar ship anymore. Instead, I was on scary, fishy-ship. Fishy-things swarmed around me, glaring and looking angry. They all looked unhappy, so I figured I should no be happy either.

I tried to ask what happened, but all just pushed past me, scowling. None of them could understand what I telling, so I shouted louder. Important fishy-person stomped towards me, yelling back. I only could hear, "Bloomin' deaf idiot," above the rest of his gargling, but was not sure what it meant.

I tried smiling, hoping that it will like me for doing it. But important fishy-person liked me less, pulling out long whip. I scared again, and tried to run away, but crowd pushed forward.

I was so confused, and did no realize that it was the bo'sun…who hates new crew members.

Bo'sun dragged me to mast, and sky is so dark that the rest of the fishy-people faded into gloom. Whip cuts into my back so many times, and I scream out with every fiery sting. I can no describe the feeling well, and memories make me shiver.

I had miserable first days on Flying Dutchman…mostly because I could no tell what I was doing wrong. I tried to help in any way I can- before, on my old ship, I was very useful crewman. But now, new ship was filled with too many languages I did no understand.

I tried to learn it, but was too hard. I had questions about what fishy-people were and why their captain talked to me. He saved me, I thought, and I was very, very grateful. I tried showing gratitude but got in the way and made bo'sun trip once.

He was upset, and I got whipped again.

All of new crewmembers shunned me, but I still tried thanking them for saving my life. They did no like when I thanked them. I think they did no understand it.

Time passed, and I taught myself to speak a little English. My accent was very thick, and few could tell what I trying to say to them.

Still, I loved watching shipmates play game with dice. After viewing it over and over, I learned how to play.

I was very good at game, and I gained sort-of-friends with the fishy-people. I was becoming a fishy-person too, so they began treating me as one of them, although most still felt bothered with me.

Shell started forming around where I had slit in neck. Shell started forming all _around_ head, too. With enough pressure, entire head could come off. Bo'sun liked knocking my head off.

Times were still hard, and I still no happy, until we found wrecked pirate vessel.

We came across half-alive man trying to fight some of us. He was having chain-shot in his hands, whacking it at any of us who tried to approach. He had great nasty wounds that some of us made, and his left eye was bloodied very much badly.

Man was attacking randomly, because he was blinded by pain. Crewmates formed circle around him, watching. Still, I approached, trying to calm man. My English still bad, and he was no listening anyway. He swung chain-shot, and hit my head, sending it flying.

Everyone hushes, and I scrambled for head. Body is stupid, and walks in dizzy way. Finally, my body picked up head and screwed it back on. I turn to face man, and he laughed at me.

I laughed too…until man collapsed, looking pale. Captain came by and asks question, and man accepts.

Crewmates snickered at me losing my head because of man with chain-shot, but I no care. I wanted to find man. He went below deck after Captain walked away.

I found man sitting on bunk. Man was staunching bad eye with slimy cloth. I smiled at man and find him less-slimy cloth to use.

Man smiled back.

Later on, man became Clanker, and Clanker became my best friend.

All others can no understand me well, and I suffer because of heavy accent. All others make fun of me, and like playing kicking games with my head.

But Clanker does not like it.

Clanker knows what I'm saying, and although we may be on scary ship with mean fishy-people, at least we're friends…something we'll share for eternity.


	13. Angler

**Angler**

I'm used t'all de beatings an' whippings.

I can bite me lip an' tough out de worst o' de storm. Being an escaped slave, I know how t'endure pain better 'den most, an' Jimmylegs, Manray, an' Broondjongen 'spect me for it. Dem is de most belligerent among us, an' bein' treated as an equal is a right fancy thing.

T'ain't ever happened before now, is fer sure.

My old master was fond o' de whip, jus' like Jimmylegs. He weren't as skilled in handlin' it, and he was usually drunk most o' de time, which made 'im angrier. Foul odor reeked from his breath, an' his face turned all swollen and purple-like.

Him was a cruel man, though in comparison t'Jones, he ain't any more frightening den a housefly. Life wasn't easy with him, though, and he 'specially held keen dislike fer me an' my family. Dat is de reason I decided to steal from 'im, and bargain fer me family's freedom.

It was a hot, windless nigh' when I tried ter sneak aboard me master's private luxury vessel. Him was a _very_ rich man, making high profits from both his sugarcane plantation...an' his slave trade.

The ship I was on weren't a bad one, though. Not like that.

It was fer his wealthy guests, ter impress 'em with all his money. De rooms were lavishly decorated, an' I knew 'dere would be lush pickings.

De ship was much less guarded den his manor, an' me master stockpiled it with all sorts o' treasure. I had me a woman an' two daughters at de plantation, and 'dem was all born into slavery, not like me.

I had t'show 'em freedom. True freedom.

Ter do that, I needed money. De master had dozens of slaves…we could be spared. With enough money, dat greedy man could be persuaded to free us.

Besides, he hardly went on his ship, so he likely wouldn't recognize de gold items I'd collect as bein' his. I also had me a friend who could melt it down into coins, an' I could jus' pretend that I was given it as generous tips by some o' his friends who liked to show off their wealth to poor slaves like me.

It's happened 'afore, so it wouldn't be suspicious-like.

I didn't approve of de idea o' stealing, but it had ter be done, fer me three darlin' ladies.

T'ain't easy being wretched, common slaves on a back-breakin' plantation, laboring all day while de hot Jamaican sun pounds down on yer back.

_I had to do it for them_.

So, I prowled around all nigh', collecting from different rooms so that too much wouldn't be missin' in one particular section. It was a long nigh', but avoiding stupid guards was easy. No one was expecting a slave t'steal their valuable trinkets.

De sentries patrolling de decks were easy ter get past; all I needed ter do was watch 'em quietly for a spell, figuring out when 'dey moved an' where.

I jus' needed to be extra patient, biding my time.

Apparently, I bided too _much_ time.

I was inside de long corridors in deserted parts o' de ship, an' de sounds o' laughter an' music trumpeted faintly in de background, muted by de walls.

I was tired from sleepless nights spent planning, and being awake an' alert for such a long time.

As it turns out, I wasn't as alert as I thought.

I did not realize dat de vessel was moving out t'open ocean.

I don't like de sea…or ships. They remind me o' the time I was crammed body-ter-body on that accursed slaver from Africa…de same one dat belonged to me master...an' brought me here.

I started getting panicked an' frantic after I found out dat I'd never see me family again.

All o' me planning was wasted, because I made a nasty huge blunder. I did not think to check back outside every once and then. Rushing out o' de interior, I saw land disappear like a wink behind de ship.

Any chance o' escape I ever had vanished in a flash. I didn't recognize how long I stood there, nor de salty tears streaming down me face like waves…until a rough hand grabbed me shoulder an' pulled me away from the railing in a jerky motion.

I turned an' faced de fellow with resignation. All me sacrifice was pointless, me gambit lost. I was a blind fool ter think dat I could make a difference fer me an' me family, to escape our lives as worthless slaves.

I ran away from one prison to an even worse one.

I barely registered the pain when the hand retracted and punched me brutally in de face. I was still too much in shock at bein' trapped at sea in a ship again, 'dis time because of my _own_ fault.

I trapped myself, an' there wasn't no other livin' soul I could blame.

I detached myself from me family, strugglin' all de while ter achieve the means with which we'd all be together.

De impact o' de blow hit me nose mighty hard, but I still lay on deck like a broken doll. I didn't care anymore. I hated myself. I deserved their punishment.

I lost myself amongst their beatings.

After a time, de men's knuckles were covered in thick blood; theirs…and me own. It looked like a kind of sickly glove. 'Dem fellows rubbed their own skin raw while tryin' ter break mine.

'Twas a funny thing, dat.

Still, de guards agreed that a harsh beatin' wasn't a good enough punishment. It wasn't suitable if they all jus' threw me bruised, bleedin' body into the black water and were done with it.

No, they continued.

After strippin' me down ter nothin' but a loincloth, they put on me an old, ragged coat, filling up all de pockets with weights. I stood stonily, refusin' to move.

Refusin' ter believe what I had done.

Dem guards was goin' t'drown me, but them all was idiots, wasting their time.

I couldn't swim.

When they hauled me overboard, I was limp. Unresistin'.

But de moment I hit de water, some urge swelled inside me, and I started thrashin' about, suddenly fearful and out of dat dazed state. I choked on water, an' kept sinking down, like a heavy stone.

'Dere was nothin' but gloom an' murk around me, and I expected ter hit bottom soon, though I jus' kept fallin' an' fallin'. There wasn't anythin' I could do, save scream noiselessly, endlessly, my arms flailing and flappin'.

The water was cold an' pitch black, an' the only thing I could see was the bubbles floating in front of me face. Soon, they too rose to de surface, gone completely.

I could keep me eyes open no more.

Just as before, there wasn't no use strugglin'. I fell into the deep.

With a shudder and a gasp, I became alert again. I was soaking wet, and couldn't tell where I was. The nigh' was a moonless one, dark as tar. Eerily though, I heard a clear, cold voice. T'weren't like nothin' I've ever heard 'afore, and it chilled me more den de freezin' air.

I was given a second chance at life, it seemed. Maybe I could work me way back towards me family somehow…

Maybe 'dis was _meant_ ter happen. I listened.

"I can offer you an escape…"

"What d'yeh mean? You already saved me." I spoke back, unsure of_ what_ exactly I was addressin'. T'weren't human, fer sure.

"Did I really?" De voice replied softly. It made me blood turn to ice right in me veins.

I said nothin', worried. Something was wrong 'bout this, but I jus' couldn't tell _what_. I was too exhausted ter do anythin' about it, besides.

De voice continued, "Do you fear death? Do you fear that dark abyss?"

My eyes widened. After plummeting through de deep, unforgivin' water, dat…abyss, I knew I more den feared it.

I _hated_ it.

"I do fear it…" I muttered through my bruised lips, eyes searchin' in vain for de source o' de voice.

I heard a rustle, den a lantern was thrust close to me head, flaring to life and lighting de most terrifying face I'd ever seen.

"Do you still?"

I shook, but me answer was firmly imprinted in me mind. "Yes. I'd do anything ter get away from it." I replied, aware now o' de rockin' of a boat. I was still on de ocean, and I was very sure dat de abyss would indeed be me end if I answered any other way.

"Good." De man stated tonelessly, apparently satisfied with me decision. With dat said, he turned away from me and stalked off into de darkness.

Peering hopelessly after 'im, I asked loudly, "Will I get ter see me family again?"

All I heard in response was the melancholy tune of a great organ.


	14. Piper

**Piper**

We're both musicians, the jolly ol' Cap and I! Oh yes, we're both men of music. I'm sure he's heard my playing while brooding all alone in that grand little cabin of his. He must have heard it! He must have enjoyed it too, yes, very much so.

Soon, quite soon, he'll skip merrily out, and clap me heartily on the back, whistling along to one of the tunes I made up myself. Yes, terrifying Captain Jones, humming and smiling…all because of me.

He'll congratulate me for my wonderful music, admiring my skillful mastery of the notes.

As of yet, he still hasn't shown much interest, outwardly, at least, but I know that will soon change. Very soon. Soon, soon, soon, ahaha! That's right! He'll love my music, he'll appreciate it and thank me for it…

And yet…yet there are instances when I'm not so sure of myself, thinking it all just nonsense, bouts of madcap lunacy from a raving imbecile. I'm worrying myself, if that sounds at all possible. I've gone daft. Stark insane.

Jones has never shown interest in me before, save the odd question on how my current tasks are being handled. I'm just a lowly crewman of no significant rank or station.

If Jones were to pay any attention to me, it certainly would not be a positive experience. Nevertheless…

I can't let myself be dragged down by nasty little thoughts, oh no! I'm better than that. Much, much better…I have my darling flute to keep me content and happy. Always good to be happy! Much, much better than the alternative where you'd look like a grand ol' ornament hanging on the wall of the brig with dependable Wyvern there. Hahaha!

That's right! Steadfast Wyvern, always holding that lantern oh-so-affably, good man. Magnificent lantern-holder, that chum. A good listener too, yes, yes.

Sometimes I'll go down and play for 'im. He never utters a sound. No, not him. Not a grunt, not even a breath, haha! He _loves_ my playing! He recognizes my talent for what it is, unlike everyone else in life.

No one would ever spare me a second glance. No one would ever toss me the simplest coin. I wasn't _good_ enough for them. Just thinking of people like that makes me snarl like a mad animal! But oh, haha, how funny it would be to turn into a wolf and go snappin' at their heels, chasing 'em 'round like sheep!

Better yet…a _kraken_, hahaha!

Then they'll get the same respect they showed me...

How peculiar…listening in to these thoughts of mine is like listening to those of a stranger. I can hardly believe it's real, detachedly eavesdropping on my own ruminations. It's an eerie sensation, to be buried beneath layers of your own soul, peering up above at the baser, more dominant aspects of your personality while it seizes ruthless control.

I'm a rational man. I was, at least, before falling into the dankest slime-pits of insanity.

Passing beyond my own digression, however…I wasn't a street musician _all_ my life.

I actually grew up in a household with a fairly comfortable income, with all the profits being made by my father's successful merchant business. Being the eldest, I was granted privileges and of course received _some_ manner of formal education.

That, fortunately, included music.

I was talented at it…particularly with the flute, which afforded me the childhood moniker 'Piper'.

However, we fell on lean times after over half the fleet was destroyed by a horrible storm. When the few remaining ships limped into harbor to relate the dreadful news, we found that all the cargo we were going to sell to buy off some of our outstanding debts was lost.

We fell into poverty instantly.

I still owned my beloved flute, and took it with me to play on the streets, a copper cup at my feet, hoping that any kind soul would stop to spare some coins.

It was a dreadful time, but one day, my talent was noticed.

Being skilled with a popular instrument, I was hired into a small orchestra of fifteen other members, where we were instructed to play for an extremely wealthy plantation owner's private vessel. I took the opportunity, promises of a once again bright future swirling in my head.

Initially, it would turn out to be a marvelous trip, despite the horrendous calamity rumored to have occurred the very day the ship set sail. It concerned an escaped slave, so it seemed. I couldn't help but overhear the whispered gossip swimming from one passenger's ear to another.

Apparently the poor brute was tortured before being tossed unceremoniously overboard; like an unwanted doll.

What a macabre start to a pleasure voyage…

But it don't really make much of a difference, really. We _all_ ended up drowning eventually. We all took a little dunk in the great fishbowl of the world! We were all dumped in the same place!

A prize like _us_ was not immune from pirates, oh ho! We were a pretty, pretty plunder.

And now, look here!

I'm on the Flyin' Dutchman, where, bein' the only master of music, not countin' Ratlin or the Cap, my flute and I get _all_ the attention. _All_ of it.

People may not be listening…_all_ of the time…but I _know_ that we still have their attention, some way or the other…some way…

After all, I ain't just some rotten ol' bloke playing for keeps…nor an unrecognized musician at the back of an orchestra.

So, _everyone _listens! Why wouldn't they? They have no other place to go, no other thing to do!

They get the chance to listen to me for absolutely no charge, imagine that.

They'll be the luckiest, they will. They'll be hearing my flute for the rest of all time…


	15. Wyvern

**Wyvern**

There's no one to see…if there's nothing to _be_ seen…

_I_ can't be seen down here.

Rotting, rotting into the wood, dying slowly into the damp timber. Years…so many long, lonely years I have wasted away, banished indefinitely to the Place of Becoming…

Part of the crew, part of the ship. That's how it goes. This is the place where you _do_ go, to disappear.

To merge.

I've seen it happen. That's how long it's been. Long, long, long. Long time. Others were here before me, and others will be here after. They all stumble down from Above, and usually don't return. Most often, the Spiky One and Rockfish come down. They seem to have some manner of authority up Above.

They don't bother talking to me anymore…no one does.

But that's just fine. I have nothing to say to them – well, nothing I _would_ say. They don't understand anymore. It isn't clear. Nothing's clear to them. Nothing's clear at all.

Muddled, muddled, muddled.

That's what it's like. That's how I am. After all, it isn't clear. Nothing's clear at all.

Not down here. I can't remember. Sometimes, I think that there's nothing _to_ remember. There's just here, and now. This place has always been, I think, and always will be, even years after I Become.

It hurts though, how it hurts!

Creak, creak, creak goes my bones. They creak and creak until I think it's only the ship I hear. I can't tell anymore. Don't know if I _have_ bones. There's just the skeleton of the hull and nothing else. Never anything else.

I would very much like to know where I am, down here. Sometimes...sometimes a memory brushes me, like the velvet and fluttering wings of a feathered moth. I don't know where I am. Panic grips me.

Then I remember. I'm where I always was – the only place that is. The Place of Becoming.

I don't know what else there is besides that.

If I can concentrate hard enough, I can see shapes. Things. People. People have walked past, ignoring me. People who aren't people.

Not anymore. Not ever, maybe. Not since the Place of Becoming. Not since the Captain.

Without a Captain, there wouldn't be a crew, wouldn't be a ship, wouldn't be a Dutchman. Without the Dutchman, nothing exists. Everything is beyond it.

I'm lost!

I don't know where I am. Panic grips me. I start again. I have to think. I have to concentrate. I was doing that just now, wasn't I…? I think so. I have to think.

I think of the young ones. They come down sometimes. They don't talk to me – not really. From somewhere very old, very deep, I remember that they never did. The young don't like the old. That's the way it is.

They have no patience, no respect. They may chortle and tease, mock and shove, but the old know. The old are the ones who have knowledge…

But they can never use it. Not when they disappear to the Place of Becoming. That's where I am. That's where I'll be. That's where all the old go – and the young. The young become old and vanish. That's how it always was. That's the way it is.

The old can sense their time…they know. That's what the old are for. To know, and to remember the forgotten. They long for this place. They long for the wood, and the damp, and the must. They don't want it, but they long for it. They ache.

They groan, until their groans are the ship's groans. Are the Dutchman's groans.

But even the young merge. Sometimes this is done as punishment from the Captain, sometimes other reasons.

You either feel the longing, or you're sentenced by the ones Above. The old feel it in their aching, aching bones.

I don't know if I _have_ bones anymore. There's just the skeleton of the hull and nothing else. Never anything else.

I'm so tired.

Tired of the moaning timbers, tired of not knowing. The old are suppose to know! I think I'm old. Maybe that's why I'm tired. Maybe the old are supposed to forget. Perhaps that's how it always was. Perhaps I defied something. Maybe that's why I'm down here.

Yes!

I defied something. A long time ago. Long, long, long.

There was a Captain. _The_ Captain. Cruel Captain. Heartless Captain.

He was in pain. Lots of pain. He had no heart. He was a heartless captain. I…said something. Something about having a heart. It made the Captain angry. I…I can't remember. Too much remembering! The old cannot know all!

Oh, how tired I am. I'm so tired.

It's been so long, and I'm tired. Years and years and years – I don't think I can bear it any longer! I cannot stand this waiting – am I waiting? I don't know. I think so…why else would it be so long? Ages and ages. Years and years and years.

I feel it deep inside, like a dull thud. A sickly ache. Ah, how I ache.

I don't know why I ache. I never really do. It is as it always had been…and always will be. I must continue. I persist to the very last, until I merge. That's the only thing I _can_ do the in Place of Becoming. I wait.

I'm very patient. I wait always, in the darkness. Always.


	16. Koleniko

**Koleniko**

Love.

The theme of forbidden love had been passed on through years. Decades. Centuries. Time passes and time wanes, yet love persists. That's the entire reasonin' of the whole thing…ain't it? Love remains steadfast and chaste.

Pure, untainted. Forever.

Forever is a long time…and to hold on to anything for eternity is difficult indeed. Let alone _love_. How can we remember and cherish that single world, that multitude of emotions if it is taboo?

That's just it – we _can't_. We won't. Not evermore, not anymore.

How can we mourn for something lost in ages past if we can't grieve for it the moment is slips away? It just diminishes slowly, until there's nothing left but a blank, hungry abyss.

A yawning hole. A deep chasm. All of it an ocean away.

I've not been on this ship long compared to some of our…_senior _membersbut long enough to gain some sort of position. Perhaps the Captain promoted me for my youth – not as a sailor, surely not.

But for my…human years. Perhaps he knew why – I am both lucky and cursed. I never found love.

I was never given the opportunity.

Oh surely, I was not so young as to never have lain with pretty lasses that I fondled on my knee, or those fine 'maidens' who smiled at me coyly from across the inn. But I was raised by a pious mother, one who made sure to rap my knuckles at my impertinence and instruct me in the ways of Christ.

Mother, dearest mother, who warned me of the evils of lust. That's what I had – common infatuation. Never love itself.

"Love of the body," Mother would always quote, "is unholy."

I wasn't much of a believer – at least, not any more so than any other god-fearin' individual. Besides, I never maltreated those ladies – and I always made sure that they were well-off when I'd leave them.

I was fond of them…but it never would have lasted.

So it surely can't have been love. Love is something you're supposed to recognize from the moment it first strikes you blind…a contradiction in itself.

As much as I wished for it, I was never blessed by my one particular angel, never knew the certainty that this was the _one_, this was the lady I'd spend my life with.

I suppose I'm still waitin' for her. Waiting for some girl to walk into my arms and look up at me with loving, liquid doe eyes.

It's a false hope, but it's the one single light I can see when I squeeze my eyes shut. Whatever woman that might have cast her eyes on me before surely would squirm in fear now.

Before the curse ruined me, I'd have imagined a foe with a glinting weapon was far more frightening than an unarmed enemy. Now…I realize.

The sword I wield in battle makes me _more_ human. It's related. Take that away, and I'm even more of a monster from wicked children's tales.

The curse that afflicts us at least makes us…_distinguished_ from everyone else…even ourselves, to some extent.

Urchin's most like me though, pocked with spines and quills just like my own. This seems the cruelest punishment to me – far more so than pure mutation.

Having these spikes juttin' out of our bodies makes us incapable of tasks most would find mundane or commonplace, tasks most take for granted…such as holdin' the ones dearest to you.

So, even if beyond all last shredding threads of reason, one goddess chose me from all other men to be hers, I would be unable to gather her in my arms and hold her close.

That pains me even more than my transformation itself, and my gut clenches whenever I chance upon that thought. So I bury it, and leave it be.

It would only elicit more agony, and the Captain didn't promote me to coxswain for pining after what I never lost.

In my waking hours, I'm dutiful and devoted to my work, having carefully schooled myself to never broach the subject of love. But when my charge is done and I'm abed…I'm tortured.

Every night I dream. Every night I can't escape. It's a constant war I'm in, being ripped to pieces as I dream, only to wearily patch them up again during the day. I feel like I'm bleedin' from hundreds of sore, festering wounds, constantly picked open by hungry beasts.

I can't help dreaming – there ain't no place I can go to for potions, antidotes or alchemists' wisdom. No witch-woman can give me release, no doctor can cure me, and I'm left to die all over again every day.

The face I see in my dreams – although sometimes they seem to be more like nightmares – is always the same. Never does she vary, and her unearthly beauty is so powerful that it's been leavin' me to wondering if she's actually more of a supernatural creature than woman.

Her powder-blue eyes stare deeply into what's become of my soul, as if searching intently for whatever traces of humanity left that she's expecting to find. I don't feel…uncomfortable durin' this search.

More at peace, really, as if a heaven-sent angel has come down to take me up with her. Forever.

And again, that word comes up. It always haunts and plagues me!

Forever, love…and my auburn-haired mistress.

Sometimes I can't even concentrate on the readin' of stars, and that will make the Captain vexed indeed.

My own lady'd smile and read me her poetry – something I truly wouldn't have expected a woman to share, let alone with a man.

Let alone with _me_.

I know it's only myself conjuring these fanciful images…but they touch me all the same, and there ain't anything I have the power to do about it. It's an addiction, and a fatal one.

But I won't mention it. Nothing good would come of it – unless I consider the easing darkness of insanity down in the brig a release.

Even then…could I really escape from it? Or would my visions only increase?

Do I really want to erase these painful, beautiful dreams? Would that starve me of my light, leaving me empty and soulless? Depraved and worthless?

It's hard to say – and judgin' the future is something I'll leave to the likes of prophets or madmen.

So, what now? Do I continue on as always, ignoring my trembling as I recall her face, or do I submit and accept?

Do I admit I'm in love with a fantasy?


End file.
